In her sweetest, faddeft plight,
Smoothing the rugged brow of night,
While Cynthia checks her dragon yoke,
Gently o'er th' accuftom'd oak;
Sweet bird that fhunn'ft the noise of folly,
Moft mufical, moft melancholy!
Thee, chantress of the woods among,
I woo to hear thy evening fong;
And, miffing thee, I walk unseen
On the dry smooth-shaven green,
To behold the wand'ring moon,
Riding near her highest noon;
Like one that had been led aftray
Through the heav'ns' wide pathless way;
And oft, as if her head she bow'd,
Stooping thro' a fleecy cloud,
Oft on a plat of rifing ground,
Í hear the far-off curfeu found;
Over fome wide water'd shore,
Swinging flow with fullen roar.
Or if the air will not permit,
Some still removed place will fit,
Where glowing embers through the room
Teach light to counterfeit a gloom;
Far from all refort of mirth,
Save the cricket on the hearth,
Or the bellman's drowsy charm,
To blefs the door from nightly harm.
Or let my lamp, at midnight hour,
Be feen in fome high lonely tower,
Where I may oft outwatch the Bear,
With thrice great Hermes, or unfphere
The spirit of Plato, to unfold
What worlds, or what vaft regions hold
The immortal mind, that hath forfook
Her manfion in this fleshly nook;
And of thofe demons that are found
In fire, air, flood, or under ground,
Whose power hath a true consent
With planet or with element.
Sometimes let gorgeous Tragedy
In fcepter'd pall come sweeping by,
Presenting Thebes' or Pelops' line,
Or the tale of Troy divine;
Or what (though rare) of later age,
Ennobled hath the buskin'd stage.
But O! fad virgin! that thy power
Might raise Mufæus from his bower,
Or bid the foul of Orpheus fing
Such notes as, warbled to the string,
Drew iron tears down Pluto's cheek,
And made hell grant what love did feek ;
Or call up him that left half told
The ftory of Cambriscan bold,
Of Camball and of Algarfife,
And who had Canacé to wife;
That own'd the virtuous ring and glass,
And of the wondrous horfe of brafs,
On which the Tartar king did ride ;
And if ought elfe great bards befide
In fage and folid time have fung
Of turneys and of trophies hung,
Of forests and inchantments drear,
Where more is meant than meets the ear.
Thus, Night, oft fee me in thy pale career,
Till civil fuited Morn appear,
Not trick'd and frounc'd as fhe was wont With the Attic boy to hunt;
But kercheft in a comely cloud,
While rocking winds are piping loud;
Or ufher'd with a shower still,
When the gust has blown his fill,
Ending on the rustling leaves,
With minute drops from off the eaves.
And when the fun begins to fling
His flaring beams, me, goddefs, bring
To arched walks of twilight groves,
And fhadows brown that fylvan loves,
Of pine, or monumental oak;
Where the rude ax, with heaved ftroke,
Was never heard the nymphs to daunt,
Or fright them from their hallow'd haunt ;
There in clofe covert, by fome brook,
Where no profaner eye may look,
Hide me from day's garish eye;
While the bee with honey'd thigh,
That at her flow'ry work doth fing,
And the waler's murmuring,
With fuch concert as they keep,
Entice the dewy feather'd sleep;
And let some strange mysterious dream
Wave at his wings in airy stream
Of lively portraiture display'd,
Softly on my eyelids laid;
And as I wake, sweet mufic breathe,
Above, about, or underneath,
Sent by some spirit to mortal's good,
Or th' unseen genius of the wood.
But let my due feet never fail
To walk the ftudious cloister's pałe,
And love the high embowed roof,
With antique pillars maffy proof;
And ftoried windows, richly dight,
Cafting a dim religious light.
There let the pealing organ blow,
To the full voic'd quire below,
In fervice high and anthems clear,
As may with sweetness, thro' mine ear,
Diffolve me into ecstafies,
And bring all heav'n before mine eyes.
And may at last my weary age
Find out the peaceful hermitage,
The hairy gown and moffy cell,
Where I may fit and rightly spell
Of ev'ry ftar that heav'n doth fhew,
And ev'ry herb that fips the dew;
Till old experience do attain
To fomething like prophetic ftrain-
These pleasures, Melancholy, give,
And I with thee will choose to live.
HENCE, loathed Melancholy!
Of Cerberus, and blackest midnight born, In Stygian cave forlorn,
'Mongft horrid shapes, and fhrieks, and fights unholy! Find out fome uncouth cell,
Where brooding Darkness spreads his jealous wings, And the night raven fings;
There, under ebon shades and low-brow'd rocks, As ragged as thy locks,
In dark Cimmerian desert ever dwell.
But come, thou goddess fair and free,
In heav'n yclep'd Euphrofyne,
And by men, heart-eafing Mirth,
Whom lovely Venus at a birth,
With two fifter graces more,
To ivy-crowned Bacchus bore ;
Or whether, (as fome fager fing)
The frolic wind that breathes the spring,
Zephyr with Aurora playing,
As he met her once a Maying,
There on beds of violets blue,
And fresh-blown rofes wash'd in dew,
Fill'd her with thee a daughter fair,
So buxom, blithe, and debonair.
Hafte thee, nymph, and bring with thee
Jeft and youthful Jollity;
Quips and cranks, and wanton wiles,
Nods and becks, and wreathed fmiles,
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